Rules of the Game
by Demyrie
Summary: Trilogy. A Razer and Jak centered chain of events, starting with a round of twisted, prerace alleyway intimidation. Razer hasn't seen the worst side of Jak... but in return for his trespasses, he will. Not for the faint of heart, Demz insists. RazerxJak.
1. Winner

**A/N:** Okay, guys :D This is an interesting ficlet.

First of all, IT'S SICK. YAY. It's supposed to be sick!

Only reason I'm posting it: I NEED TO. Otherwise there'd be no setup for the two 'sequels'. And Demz HEARTS the two sequels, as they are brimming with RAZER! How can anyone resist?

Plus we need more JakX stuff. That doesn't suck.

**Language: BAD. Just…. BADBADBAD. Horrid!**

**Pairings: If any, RazerxJak. POSSIBLE JakxDax and later, hinted MizoxRazer.**

**Warnings:** EUPHIMISMS DON'T EXIST HERE. Although the graphic physical stuff has been cut with a surgical knife (nice and clean cuts!), anybody with two brain-cells to rub together WILL KINDA GET WHAT HAPPENS.

So if Jak!Abuse makes you sad, plz leave k. (You have no idea how sad it makes me, in reality o.o And yet if it's Razer-centered, GOD WILL I SERVE.) But Jak will also get his, in time.

SPOILERS OUT THE WAZOO LATER ON. My advice? No reading until JakX is finished.

And please, if you don't like the first chapter? Easily upset over icky innuendos? Skim it and go to the others. PLZPLZPLZ. They're not (sexually) bad, and I like them bunches!

-.-.-.-.-

Winner

-.-.-.-.-

He'd heard them coming.

They'd closed in, dropping into the narrow street one at a time and tailing him- quick and efficient. Purposeful. That kind of intense _purpose_ didn't radiate from regular people walking the streets. That's what always tips a target off that they're being followed. That explains the fear.

He hadn't sped up, hadn't tried to escape. He had the greater advantage in a fight, not a chase.

He monitored them- and like a quick cloth over his nose, he knew when they were going to act. He knew the second beforehand, and stopped moving. His instincts were thrumming anxiously, straining to pick out every black detail behind him; connecting every scrape in the unearthly silence to a knife, teased out of its sheathe. They weren't attempting to hide anything, now. The sounds were intended to carry.

It was a black, cramped alleyway. The hum and whirr and muted, fizzling lights of the city seemed far away, blocked off by the high walls. Quiet, secluded. It was the perfect place for a dirty job.

One arrived, a little late. He scuffled into the street and froze. The rest creaked comfortably in their worn leather, the silence menacing. Jak could nearly see their meaty fists clenching, trading wide, gap-toothed grins. Awaiting a signal, whether his own or a leader's.

Jak had been waiting for something like this since arriving to Kras City- the death-threats had piled up, increasingly graphic as the races wore on and he increasingly emerged the victor.

He was only surprised, in a grim way, that it hadn't happened sooner.

Listening to the silence, Jak spared a grateful thought that Daxter had decided to head out early. The idea of him traveling these streets alone had caused Jak a moment of pause, but right now waiting at the Bloody Hook was the safest place his best friend could be. He wanted Dax out of the way, and not a possible bargaining chip if these thugs managed to shake him off his perch.

The knife scraped again, this time with thinly veiled impatience. They were ready, and he didn't seem to be rising to the bait. Jak had been jumped in too many Haven alleys by pathetic 'undercover Guards' for the cat-and-mouse game to have any effect, but it had been a tough day- he hoped he could get this over with quickly. All he wanted to do was wind down with Dax.

This would be a lesson to any thuggish racers who had similar ideas about knocking out the new competition, on or off the track.

Closing his eyes for a steadying moment, Jak turned around and met with three men, blocky forms entrenched in shadow-rich corners. Oily lamplight from a street over, smudging the precise lines of the roofs and dribbling into the alley, glinted off the casually held weapons. Jak took silent stock, weighing the situation.

Three didn't seem too much to handle, even if he was exhausted.

He ran forward, feeling the dredges of dark eco stir sleepily, then leap up to crackle along his skin. The thugs' boots snapped as they darted out from their corners.

Five brutal minutes into the following fray, he seriously considered reforming his prior opinion.

He was getting the shit beaten out of him. Metal Head tactics were erratic but still recognizable- these men assailed him from three sides, trading blows in an ordered, precise pattern that gave the impression he was being volleyed back and forth between fists. His orientation fractured, irritation surging, he threw heavy, vicious punches only to realize his momentum had dragged him into a completely clear field of vision. No target.

He wobbled, and tensed for a blow from the back; it always came, blunt boot hacking into his side. He whirled, ready to fight back, and the cycle repeated.

Before expecting some kind of advantage, Jak was now simply struggling to stay on his feet.

A knee caught him low in the gut, lights bursting behind his eyes. He panted, staggering to one knee, and as he doggedly forced himself back to his feet, someone quickly boxed him across his ear. It was a glancing blow, mostly knuckles, but enough to snap his concentration and send him pitching drunkenly forward.

He rocketed back to his senses just as he was being stuffed down against the ground, body stiff and refusing, knees creaking as two pairs of hands dug into his back. Being quickly packaged off into a cramped kneeling position.

The fact he hadn't seen his attackers was actually more alarming than the helpless position he was in. All of the eco seemed to have been sloughed from his skin, flaking away and leaving him colder, stiffer than before. He cursed, feeling cramps dagger into his legs.

The poison had been at work on him for three weeks. Three long weeks. It was whittling his control away- his stamina, his focus. Without his head together or a nearby source, what little eco he had was dead weight. Fighting was the only option.

His wrists twisted up brutally against his back, Jak wrestled from the waist up, shoulders rolling against the hard hands. Deep voices muttered mutinous above him as he struggled. He growled, jerking and bucking upwards, and was rewarded with a prickling wet face, cheek forced down onto the concrete and dragged across it, dagger-like shards of gravel catching into the soft flesh of his face.

He bit back a grunt. His bare skin throbbed but it didn't quite feel right; the basic pain was like a red snake recoiling from the cold, adrenaline-laced awareness his mind exuded.

Sudden silence fell, his captors' scuffle quieting as someone approached them, footsteps deliberate and soft.

"My, my. You're impressive, Jak. I'll give you that."

Jak stilled under his abusers' hands, anger condensing. At least now he knew who'd hired this job out.

Finely polished boots slipped into his up-ended vision as if testing the grungy concrete with a pointed toe, naming the speaker as easily as a title. His smell, acidic pine and pungent cologne, seemed too sharp in the grey alley. If that wasn't enough, most recognizable was the tailored, accent-heavy drawl, punctuated by the muted huff of a cigarette being sucked on. Delicately.

A hand swung down by his side, the glowing white stick clamped neatly between toxic yellow fingers.

"Given your talent, tomorrow you could easily humiliate any of the half-wits all too eager to play Mizo's little game." He murmured graciously, almost to himself. His voice was never devoid of that slight, humorous emphasis. "But I know Mizo's rules- he prizes me for several reasons, including my prowess in all things fashionable… and I am no half-wit."

He carried on jauntily, laughingly- a conversational tone was his forte.

"I will win, Jak." The racer smirked, not unkindly.

He always carried on with thinly veiled friendliness, interjecting a catty comment and just as suddenly dipping to threatening depths. A conniving racer with cutthroat connections. Still, Razer was not one to fear.

Jak had faced far worse than whatever he could come to at the hands of this man.

Edje and Cutter let Jak up as he spoke, eagerly shoving him back down if he tensed for a struggle. He trembled with the effort of staying still while infuriatingly led into a sitting position, and soon he was perched on his knees in front of Razer, glaring up from under furious brows. The older man waited until he had been 'settled', looking on with an indulgent eye, then clicked his tongue.

"Yes, I will win, and you will be shamed. But in what way?" He mused, smiling. Razer looked him over without leaving the cold blue eyes, which never flinched as the foreigner's glove clenched the back of his head, short blonde bristles peeking out of the toxic yellow. His neck creaked as Razer pulled his chin up, smiling fondly.

"It's never too early to start, you know. Cheating, hiring men out, tampering with a rival's… equipment- all done the night before. Intimidation, most of all." He said mysteriously, smile widening. "It's a tradition among our kind."

His easy free hand moved from his side, the other sliding from Jak's hair. Edje gave a guttural chuckle. With every little jerk driven down into submission, Jak stayed rigidly attentive as Razer's hand seemed to tuck against his jacket, toying below his belt in slow, lazy strokes.

Nothing happened.

There was thrumming expectation among the spectators. Brute eagerness. Jak nervously probed for the source, and, after finding no belying hint in Razer's lazy green eyes, glared straight in front of him. Waiting.

It was a bare second more before he realized the tent in the man's blood-red jacket, fat under Razer's fingers and fully level with his mouth.

"If you would… render me a service?" He asked softly.

Jak's blood ran cold, but he remained motionless. Unresponsive.

Razer's elegantly arched brows, dark and thin as if drawn there with loose flicks of an artist's pencil, furrowed then loosened, as if graced with a revelation. His gloved hand came up, pressing against his temple as an airy smile toyed with his thin mouth.

"Ah, but I suppose I have to put it in your vulgar, city words for you to understand…" He sighed dismissively, and his hand flipped at the air, fingers splayed prettily.

He looked down, suddenly intense and feral.

"(Que something incredibly crude to unnerve Jak. Yes, I'm keeping it just this clean.)" He whispered, forming the words carefully.

Jak threw all of his weight backwards, jarring the two racers' hold on him and furiously clawing past them. They caught him instantly, wrestling him back to his knees- he lashed out, driving his elbow into whatever it could reach, but they gripped his hair by the roots, Shiv ramming a cold gun to his temple. The pressure sent stars coughing into his vision. He fell back on his haunches, eyes refocusing in pain.

Razer watched it all, one finger pressed primly to his chin. Not fazed in the least.

He recovered fitfully, but was soon clear-eyed and brimming with dangerous fury. Trapped.

Razer seemed not to notice, easily undoing his belt and shucking it to the side, opening the front flap of his jacket. His intention was already crystal clear, but the careful preparations were a deliberate taunt.

The zipper opened as if it were greased.

-.-.-.-.-

And now for some inane!banter-y censoring skillz!

Because we all know what happens.

-.-.-.-.-

Edje: …. Duuuuude. That's sick. D:

Cutter: DUDE I KNOW.

Shiv: Oh yeah! I mean… wow, that must be humiliating! I MEAN WOW DUDE SICK.

Cutter: Uhhuh.

Edje: Yep.

Shiv: … Wow. SICK. Way to stick it to the competition, right fellas?

Cutter: Uhhuh.

Edje: Yep.

Shiv: Wow. Just… wow. … he's good at that.

Edje: … Holy SHIT man, ARE YOU HARD:O

Shiv: vndoifhdomgomgNOWAI.

:uncomfortable silence:

Cutter: Dude. You're hard. Officially cutting all relations with you.

Shiv: DAMN IT ALL. :sulk:

AAAAAND THEY'RE DONE. (Nice pun, Cutter :D)

-.-.-.-.-

"_Ah, ah. It's impolite to spit."_

Quick and ordered, as if trained to disassemble a machine piece by precise piece, Edje and Cutter took the gun away from his head, wrenched up his hands to a vulnerable height on his back as he began to struggle, and brutally forced his head down to the ground. Jak writhed once more, sucking in air through his slippery lips and filled with a new, bristling rage. 

Eyes wild, beyond words, he glared up as Razer surveyed him, green eyes lazy, before delicately flipping a white square of cloth out of his pocket and tossing it. The handkerchief fluttered serenely, settling in front of Jak's nose.

"Good luck in the races tomorrow, Jak."

He turned and began strolling away, hands clasped behind his back. A quiet, prim smile.

"I believe you have something on your chin."

A second's pause, and all the pressure was removed from Jak's back and arms.

He spat viciously, forcing himself up from his knees- an instant, ringing blow from a metal-plated knee slammed into his temple, pain bursting outward with a solid crack. Jak swerved sideways and dropped heavily into the cold concrete, metal notches on his jacket scraping, the sound thin and musical. He gagged, bitterness coating his throat. His consciousness wavered.

A blunt kick in the back of his neck wrenched his body into an impassioned, anguished arch, and the light of awareness flickered out of his eyes.

He passed out.

-.-.-.-

It had been an hour. The rat had started out fine, chitchatting with other racers, wheedling his way into their conversations like the vermin he was. Swinging his legs, every outward sign of ease present. But as the minutes crawled into quarter hours and half hours, he slowly stiffened, began looking more and more eagerly at the door whenever it opened, face falling more and more anxiously each time.

It had been an hour, and such a time found him on Razer's table, tapping his foot.

"Awright fruitloop, here's the deal."

Edje and Shiv traded looks behind him, but he remained politely attentive. The rat stretched gluttonously, eyes flickering about. Stalling.

While he was witless enough to sleep in the lion's den, he was just bright enough not to make his pillow in the beast's mouth.

"It's a nice night. I'm feelin' good, you're feelin' good… and the whole of my animal instinct are screamin' at me not to take two steps nearer t'you than it takes to get a face full of your HIDEOUS cologne… but hey. That'd land me at the back of the room, so as you can see I've gotten over it a bit. I'm just wonderin', sabertooth soulpatch… you seen Jak?"

He threw up his arms before they could interject, rolling his eyes.

"I know, I KNOW, you all had hard times on the track with Jak and me BEATIN' you and all, but I gotta ask- 'cos while his punctuality ain't somethin' to brag about, an hour with no baby-blues kinda gets me antsy. I mean c'mon, we're all friends and bloodthirsty rivals here! …Plus you watch him like a hawk. A creepy, kinda obsessive hawk."

Apparently his face looked blank. The rat sighed, flipping out a paw.

"Run this by you one more time: you seen Jak?"

Razer sucked absently at his cigarette, thin and clean against his teeth. Wondered briefly how Jak would feel, forced between his lips, if they were ever on the terms to return tonight's favor.

No. The hero wouldn't play dirty like that. Razer was almost disappointed. Clean men and their pompous morals.

He looked up at the rat, smiling.

"Yes. We've seen him."

Relief and annoyance clashed, the latter ruffling itself into a veritable orange explosion as seconds ticked by with no forthcoming explanation.

"… What is this, a game-show? Well hello, Vana, I'd like to buy a street or a bar, THANKYOU!" He barked, tiny furred fists balling at his sides.

The nervousness. He was painfully transparent- wary of the death-threats, though insistent that they did not matter. The stakes were getting increasingly higher, and an hour without his miserable yet pretty racer was an hour of possibilities. Grim possibilities.

Razer wondered idly how the rat thought any dangerous situation would be different if he, in all his diminutive size, were there. He was skilled at biting ankles, perhaps. He flicked a piece of ash off his cigarette.

"I'm afraid he's in a bit of trouble." 

The little orange face dropped in horror. All the rat's fears had been confirmed. Razer played on them, quiet and withholding. Casual.

"I'd go and find him, if I were concerned in the least. Which I don't happen to be."

Daxter's speed betrayed him. He jumped off the table, running on all fours to the door before he turned back, eyes wide and searching and suspicious.

"Third district. Hurry, little rat."

He weighed the information, eyeing Razer in some fashion of distrustful panic, then barreled out the door, tail whipping about the doorframe. He disappeared in an incoming group, weaving through pant-legs and pat-pattering softly on the cold concrete.

Edje, Shiv and Cutter guffawed gracelessly behind him. Razer smiled quietly into his drink, lips parting delicately to take a sip.

Fun night, all in all.

-.-.-.-.-

"Jak? Jak, s'that you?"

Water pattered softly, the sound of cars swerving vibrated in the distance- but the groan definitely belonged to his Jak.

Why he'd be trashed in an alleyway was only Daxter's guess, but he crossed every digit he had as he trotted further into the musky darkness. Praying for no blood and a semi-conscious Jak, maybe?

He cleared his throat, prepping for the alternative.

"Honestly, y'think you could be a little more INCREDIBLY LATE? After all, I mean JEEZ, s'not like I wasted an hour or two waitin' back there for your sorry behind!"

Jak was flat on the floor, splayed out like he'd been flung down and left to sleep it off. Didn't look good, but how ELSE would he look like on the floor? Splayed vs. fetal position aren't always the best odds. Daxter tried to buoy his voice, scampering up. Being extra loud, just to let Jak know.

"Here I come to save ya, and you're noddin' off in some alley. You could'a just piped up if you were hankerin' for a nap. Don't be a priss— heroes need 'em too, y'know. I'd rather have you alive and shut-eyed than dead and wide-eyed, any day."

His voice suddenly dipped, softer. Seeing the absolute lack of response, Daxter toned it down.

Those aforementioned eyes didn't seem to want to open. Jak blinked, focusing fitfully. Didn't even mouth Daxter's name, which was a usual mandatory if the Ottsel found him abused, bleeding and in any kind of ditch.

And while there wasn't any blood, but the guy reeked 'abused'. Nervous as hell, Daxter gave the whole 'gentle best friend' thing a shivering shot.

"The fine wine snot said you were in a bad way."

Giving in to near-invisible coaxing from little orange paws, Jak dragged himself limply into a sitting position, still tilting awkwardly to one side. Daxter reached up and touched the side of Jak's face, fishing for a reaction, good or bad— something to give him a grip on the situation. Jak looked at him, blue eyes blank.

"Hey? Buddy? Ugly Kras sewer ditch to Jak? Talk to me. Y'know, WORDS. Y'get roughed up or somethin'? You sure look the part…"

Jak didn't answer, just turned his head to the side. The strange half-light caught his profile, alerting Daxter to some kind of cloudy, filmy-looking substance on Jak's chin.

"I think you… got somethin' on your face."

Jak glared at him instinctively, hearing the echo. Daxter half-jumped, holding up his paws meekly.

"Ain't a 'fugly' joke, swear it."

He palmed his lips after a moment, smearing them dry and flicking the sticky clump onto the floor.

"Jak?" That rare bit of raw concern. The light touch of paws on his jacket.

The sour, dry taste coated his tongue. He spat again, the air seeming to spread the taste further down his throat.

Daxter was looking up at him, blue eyes bright and skeptical, but not without that hint of fear.

Jak met his best friend's eyes, a sudden anxiety stoked by the look. Talking was out of the question, but Dax was waiting for a reason.

They sat for a long, slow moment, Jak's face sluggishly recovering its natural coloring. The poison made it harder and harder to stand back up after being knocked down.

He thought of the race. He thought of the odds of losing, of the lawless city, and of the racers. One racer, in particular.

"Help me kill Razer tomorrow." Jak said quietly.

"Oh, and I needed a formal invitation?" Daxter drawled, almost instantly. He was forcibly relieved at a common ground.

He took Jak's vaguely proffered arm and heaved himself up, the light pressure of his paws scuttling up Jak's battered and aching frame lending some comfort.

The familiar weight on his shoulder soothed him. Daxter promised him just what he needed to hear- it was something of a chummy whisper, but bracing and comforting all the same.

"We'll smear him across the track, sweetheart. There won't be enough left to stuff a thimble."

Jak walked uncertainly out of the alleyway, petting his best friend across the belly. Daxter did his best to purr jauntily, even though he wasn't the best at it.

Oh well. It got the lug to smile after a few streets.

After all, Daxter knew they weren't going anywhere special for the rest of the night, and he was fine with that.

He was just surprised, in a grim way, that this hadn't happened sooner.


	2. Loser

YAY PART TWO.

Jak gets his :U

-.-.-.-.-

Loser

-.-.-.-.-

Those few quiet moments before the race were made for preparation. Jak crossed his arms over his chest, eyes dull.

"Can I count on you to win the race for us?"

Her face grew bitter, full mouth thinning. Like he was stupid to ask a question like that.

"Jak, there's no guarantee-"

"I won't win this time." His tone left no room for argument. "I need you to save this one for us."

"What the hell do you mean?"

He gave no answer.

-.-.-.-

He was driving like a bat out of hell.

"So frantic, Jak!" The voice filtered in on their personal mic, crisp and silky- pointedly delicate even as the red car tore in beside them with a vicious swerve.

Their tormentor was obvious. Daxter prayed to whatever deities favored life above death that Jak would just let it go- that whatever happened last night would NOT be enough to coax his pal off the track and into something that would definitely spell taps for them both. But Jak's thick knuckles were already pasty and cold on the wheel, eyes burning. He stiffened dangerously as the voice came rolling out again, an amused purr.

"Your form is dropping. Whatever has been done to upset you?"

Jak stayed silent, forcing the grip of those lazy words away with a stiff snort.

The agitated roar of an engine swelled behind the mic, and the corresponding car shot up into place ahead of them. Razer made an appraising sound as Jak tugged on the wheel out of instinct.

"But then, you enjoy a certain grace under pressure that I have come to admire. So strong, Jak." Daxter could almost see the long, thick yellow finger at his neatly trimmed chin. "Throughout our entire conversation last night, you never raised protest. Not a word. Curious."

Daxter felt a quickly stilled shift of Jak's eyes- a short look back at him, filled with apprehension. But the raging road still barreled on ahead of them, Razer's car gliding smoothly at their front. They entered a tunnel, the lack of a crowd rubbing a layer of pulsing silence over their lacquered cars.

"Now that could simply be your silent bearing. But rationally, with all your passivity at the time, one would think you had even come to … enjoy it."

Daxter winced as Jak ripped the mic from its holster and convulsively pressed it to his mouth.

"You better run, Razer." He hissed, voice dark and gravelly- putting Daxter in mind of pale skin and black claws.

"And if I don't?" The racer asked smoothly.

"I'll kill you." He breathed.

"Somehow I doubt that."

A sudden squeal ripped through the silent tunnel, Jak's foot forcing the gas flat to the floor- their car went slamming into Razer's fender, sending the lightweight vehicle into a quickly righted swerve.

The connection kicked back in with a snap of static and a disdainful snort– one which was satisfyingly out of breath.

"We'll talk at the finish line, liebchen." Razer snapped, speeding up with a steady hum. "Be a dear and get there in one piece, won't you?"

The mic shut off, and Jak turned back to look at Daxter, blue eyes vivid with anger, shoulders set straight.

"Anything we get, use it."

"What?" Daxter squawked, in a daze. "What if there ain't anybody on the track-"

"Just do it." Jak bent low to the wheel- an almost preparatory ripple of power stemmed from him, thin and faltering, but dangerous.

"Build up a charge."

-.-.-

The crowd was screaming, far away. The race was over. One red car screeched to a halt, its tail skidding out until it stopped neatly perpendicular with the track- but the man who struggled out of it was a mess.

Razer staggered out of his car with legs stiff as a board, broad shoulders shivering in rage. His hair was mussed, face unattractively haggard and pale- though his mouth retained that thin, haughty sneer like a bad aftertaste.

He looked around, eyes sharp and hateful, starting forward with a stifled gesture as a familiar car approached. Other racers had started to arrive in several levels of squeals, Shiv and Edje clambering dutifully out of their vehicles to flank him. The elder racer was unmindful of them, his blistering attention focused solely on the new driver.

"You tactless whore!" Razer snarled, half-screaming as the car came into range. "You nearly rammed me off the track with those stunts!"

His cigarette was smoldering on the ground at the foot of his car, but his fingers twitched as though rolling one back and forth, agitated. Jak's car swerved with intention to park, and Razer's accent became ten times thicker in rage, face paling.

"Nothing you did was legal!"

Daxter poked his head out of the top of their racer, narrowly avoiding the turret.

"Oh yeah, Posh Spice, like you've ever stuck your nose in the rulebook before!" He barked scathingly, then stuck a finger to his chin. "Wait- or did you and your crew WRITE the stupid thing?"

The Ottsel was fixed with a hateful sneer, a gloved hand squeaking neatly as Razer clenched his fist.

But the moment the car screeched into place, Daxter jerked to the side, flopping out of sight as the car gave a guttural shiver- like a great weight had left the front seat. Paranoia stirred in his gut. Daxter struggled up to see, small furry hands patting the roll bar anxiously, and immediately played witness to one of the worst scenes he'd ever imagined.

Even though he hadn't had high hopes, Jak was already good and gone.

Jak had leapt out of the seat in a furious jerk, changing even as his feet hit the floor- his clawed hands scraped the concrete within seconds, creating flimsy sparks. He tore over to the opposite group of racers on all fours, horns curling from his skull in the slipstream of his low, feral gallops. Mizo's men froze under cold, beetle-black eyes, the wraith spitting in rage.

Horrified, they watched a man become a beast.

Daxter groaned inwardly. Jak's path was unmistakable. In one straight line, he slammed into Razer with a meaty thump- the older man crumpled with a tense shout, quickly dragged under by Jak's claws.

The rest of the group dissolved in a loose, horrified circle as the rest of Dax's team pulled up, Sig ducking out of his car with a wary expression. The Ottsel spared them a glance, then went back to watching the very equivalent of a horrible car crash.

Dark had dragged Razer's kicking, twitching body into the middle of the circle and was crouched across his wide chest, thighs bloated with hard muscle. Once seated, he wasted no time- Dark punched Razer over and over, a pained grunt following each crack. Within moments a growling Dark was beating the shit out of him, the older racer's pale face batted from side to side.

But it wasn't Dark's anger. He wasn't even using his claws, instead balling his white hands into fists, which seemed a strangely human gesture. There was a concentration there that the bloodthirsty side of Jak never had- cold, radiating hatred, yes, but this wasn't impersonal. He had a target, and for a reason.

That wasn't Dark's anger. That was Jak; pure Jak.

Yanking Razer upward by the lapels of his jacket, Jak punched him in short, vicious strikes until his handsome mouth became wet with blood, then roared in his face, baring a mouthful of crisp, pointed fangs. Razer's arms wind milled brokenly, juggled between forcing the monster off of him and attempting to drag himself away. Jak snapped and crackled with eco, bright strands squirming off of him with hissing sounds as he dug his fingernails into Razer's neck and slammed his head into the cold concrete. Razer's emerald eyes rolled sluggishly back in his head, and Jak, with an air of finality, stepped off of him- then lifted him under the arms and bodily tossed him away.

The older racer skidded sloppily as he hit, scrambling dazedly into a broad red ball a few feet away, undulating in panic. By now all of Jak's team was out of their cars, staring at the crouching, heaving nightmare that was their lead racer.

Silence lay heavy on the track, the winner of the engagement obvious.

Even Razer's own team seemed reluctant to touch him. After several minutes of skirting around him, Edje and Shiv took hold of Razer and helped him upright with ginger fingers and thin mouths- he was soon slumped against the side of his car, holding a stiff hand to his nose. Toxic yellow was dipped in a rusty orange, hands shaking as he fixed Jak with wild dry eyes, blood flowing steadily from under his fingers.

"D-du… bist ein tier." He breathed, voice thick with pain.

Sparking, Jak hissed out the rest of the dark eco in a rancid growl- it rattled in his chest then spewed out, low and threatening.

Hastily animated, Razer stumbled up, wrenched open his car door with wet hands and threw himself in. He cast one terrified glance back at Jak before gunning down the track, plunging them into an oily cloud of burnt rubber. The rest of Mizo's team, trading quick, wary glances, followed. Only Edje stayed behind, trading ugly glares with Jak's company even as his teammates tore down the track. His tattooed fist trembled, jaw twitching in rage.

"Mizo'll get you for this, freak." He promised, gritting his teeth- but his engine let out a throaty roar as he too retreated, leaving the track empty.

Jak remained crouched in place for several more moments, dark horns nestled in his jagged hair, before beginning to writhe heatedly. Skin soon flushed with new color, a stiff groan signaled his return to humanity. But he made no move to get up.

As soon as she was certain his alter ego had retreated, Ashelin stepped towards Jak on the empty road, boot scraping loudly in the silence.

"What the hell was-"

"Shh, sh."

She turned back, affronted, red mouth turning angry.

"Daxter-!"

"He deserved it." The Ottsel said firmly, lips pressed tightly together.

Somehow the simplicity of the Ottsel's words seemed to rein in Jak's team, close their open mouths and insert a profound unease into their guts.

"That fruitcake deserved every swat. He's damn lucky he got away with his neck."

As products of Daxter's efforts, the most inquiry Jak received was a stiff nod from Sig as he came back to the group, face a sickly shade of grey. All shapes and sizes of eyes watched him warily as he seemed to teeter, gulping thickly, and then right himself.

When he passed out a second later, Sig's thick arms shot out to catch him.

At least they'd won the race.


	3. Aftermath

A/N: This is my favorite part. MizoxRazer dynamics MAKE ME SO HAPPY.

And okay? Okay? I owe this one ONE-'UNDRED PERCENT to Weiila. MY Weiila, that is, (not yours) but you can go love/worship her because I say so. She inspired it, was incredible, fixed it and gave me nummy German for Razer to yell. I ADORE YOU, DAHLING.

Razer is… my favorite. Ever. And as I put the finishing touches on this piece, I began pitying him profoundly.

Warning: VIOOLLEENCEEE :O SPOILERTASTIC TOO. 

**AND A PLOT HOLE MAYBE.** Doublyso, for reasons I can't… adequately express in their dialogue, Mizo's gang knows about the poison. I mean, why else would Mizo make off with the antidote at the end, yelling 'YOU WILL ALL DIE'? So. If that's a hiccup in my thought process, (no doubt Mizo would know those kind of tactics to be FAR more than suitable for sleaze-ball Krew's reign of terror) forgive me.

-.-.-.-.-

Aftermath

-.-.-.-.-

"Alright. Let's run through this one more time, shall we?"

His hands were clasped behind his back, his insufferable pink shirt the only wide blot of color in the room. The rest was lost to gritty lighting and the dead grey of concrete.

Mizo appreciated low lights when he worked. They set the mood, he said. Crime lords can't be all sunshine, daisies and fluorescent backlighting, after all. A little incognito is required.

But that could just be his wit.

He stepped to the side, a practiced prelude to pacing. His hands fanned, his voice warm and earnest. Telling a story.

"It's a great day. Great day for business, a great day for fun… the stands are full, all engines revving! Every man ready to shoot out there on that track and take one for the team."

His constant smile sweetened, warming into a skewed paternal thing. His face was handsome, luxuriant.

"Fans are cheering… All for the right people, of course." He chuckled. "And then they're off."

There was a tense silence. Mizo turned around, face bare of any gleaming smiles.

"You lose the race." He said in simple acidity.

Razer tensed in his chair, chest straining outwards as though something within him leapt to refute that claim- as though to insist that there was far more to it than that- but his eyes darkened at a warning glance from Mizo.

A tattered, professional peacock under scrutiny, Razer stilled himself. Mizo, suddenly flat and businesslike, appeared satisfied, and began pacing.

"After you lose the race, you stop on the track. Following your lead, the rest of the team stops with you." Mizo jerked his head, a nod to at least that much understanding. "The Sicks pull up for a little after-circuit banter. You and our hero have a spat. And that's where you lose me, Razer."

Mizo's lips twitched in a faintly mocking smile. Razer's hand clenched in his lap, precipitate fury rising into his neck.

"According to you, entirely human, impeccably poisoned Jak suddenly leaps out of his car and runs straight for you. While running, he changes into a freak. A pale, clawed freak." He was openly mocking the other now, voice delicately unoffending. "He attacks, and… well, just look at you. At the rate you're going, we'll have to call in a new mascot."

Mizo's toothy grin was set back in the gilded pedestal of his face, and he stepped forward, wiping his thumb across Razer's cheek. The touch was intense, his thick palm curling briefly around the others stitched jaw. Razer sneered instantly, nostrils flaring, and tilted his head away as far as he dared.

Mizo chuckled.

"C'mon. Let me take a look at you."

Razer remained as he was, neck taut in refusal. Anger flared in Mizo's dark eyes, and he seized Razer's jaw with new strength, squeezing. The younger winced graphically, body curling invisibly under the strain as Mizo came level with his face.

"Relax, Razer. Unlike some, I don't bite." He whispered through his teeth.

The checkup was quick and impersonal. Once done with one side, Mizo delivered a flick to Razer's ear, and the racer turned the other cheek, eyes dead. Impeccably trained.

A black eye, bulging. Several stitches. Broken nose. Yellowing bruises. Roving over the man's injuries with a mildly interested air, Mizo let out a low whistle as he reached Razer's neck- a pale stretch of skin with ten, precise slits, five on each side. Each was surrounded by a ring of angry, wet mauve.

Dark eco wounds, it looked like- though he wouldn't bet the house on it. He touched one, and was rewarded with Razer's seething intake of breath. Mizo tsked.

"Well, well. It looks like your play-pal at least has enough style to get his nails done while going creature-feature. Your neck was very cleanly cut- almost looks like a matching set, bucko."

Razer straightened as he drew back and dusted his hands off, fixing him with those cold, cultured eyes that, once upon a time, he had found so enticing.

Humorous, how attraction could fade so quickly.

"Are you quite done?" Razer bit each word, pale mouth moving minutely. Even in this hideous state, Mizo wondered at the handsomeness that clung like an aftertaste to the bone-china ridges of his stitched cheeks.

"Yeah, I'd say so." He drew back, leaning against his worktable and studying Razer's passive expression. The room was silent, save for the clean squeak of the other's gloves as he wadded them in his bare hands.

"So you understand." He said stiffly. "You will help me; you will kill him."

Mizo shook his head with a chuckle, reveling in his deep, genial form of amusement.

"Now, now. Murdering a contender outright, WEEKS before the big races? I'm surprised at you, Razer. That would be unsportsmanlike! I thought I taught you better than that." He chided, turning from his companion slightly.

At Razer's invisible surge of irritation, he sighed, voice darkening.

"At least wait this years circuit out, and our buddy Jak will be out of your hair- that I can promise you. Out of your hair and six feet under, that is. All it'll take is a few more weeks. You can wait that long, cant you?"

He turned back with an open expression, only to find Razer's seething where he sat, boots braced against the ground.

"No! I have driven for you for years, faithful as ever- you cannot deny me this! Not here, not now! Kill him, Mizo. Now." He insisted, eyes gleaming feverishly through his injuries. "It will not be hard. Catch him before he changes!"

Mizo's expression faltered farcically.

"Woah, now- hold up there, tiger. Who do you think you're talking to?" Mizo's naked brow furrowed as he sat back again with a displeased thump, crossing his arms across his broad chest. His own bland brand of condescending disapproval flattened his handsome face. "I can most certainly deny you this. In fact, I can deny you anything. I'm the boss. Don't you think you're overstepping yourself a little here?"

"_Mizo_!" Razer snarled in warning, gesturing violently with his hands and clearly forgetting his place. "I cannot compete with a… ein _tier_! It is unnatural!"

Mizo was well accustomed to Razer's little habit of lapsing into his native language when agitated, but in this he had to pause.

"This… word you keep using! Tier." His wide mouth ballooned around the word, unnatural as it was. Razer frowned at the slaughter of the vowels, but stayed silent under Mizo's scrutiny, watching passively as the man thumbed his chin with thick fingers.

"What does it mean?" His eyes were more purple than blue, sharp with interest.

Razer's expression darkened, his thin mouth hiking up distastefully as he stirred for an answer.

"Beast." He said after a moment.

"Woah, hey, let's not be so quick to judge." Mizo protested, hands raised in front of him as though receiving a playful punch. Dragging it out with a stumbling, polite protest. "I mean, sure, we've all heard RUMORS about our little friend-"

"What I saw yesterday surpassed the very worst of any gainsay." Razer hissed, straining to make him see sense. "What I saw was beyond rumor or invention- it was _madness_. That thing is not human."

Mizo's mouth opened- then abruptly closed.

"I don't know, Razer." He seemed to pluck the words out of the air, musically. He began to wander again, all in his familiar, amiable consideration. "Normally I'd trust you, but this is different. You've been known to be a tad… superstitious sometimes."

"Superstitious?" He breathed, infuriated. The word came awkwardly- too many thick sounds for his trained tongue, accent bleeding all the while- but he straightened indignantly anyways, eyes blazing. "I am no such-"

"I seem to remember a certain incident about a year ago where you rudely slapped our friend Edje across the face for touching your car before the finals. Bad luck, you said. A vehicle should be exposed to none but its driver before a big race." Mizo brandished a hard smile, eyebrows raised appraisingly. "A little tradition you kept from the old country, my friend?"

Razer glanced downward, delicate brows contracting. His hands stilled their constant clenching in his lap.

"That has no bearing here," he said after a moment, voice dead.

Mizo made a vague sound, drawing in a bracing breath.

"Ah. I see. However, with as much faith as I have in you… are you sure this isn't some old world fantasy of yours? Some campfire tale gone wrong? The pure idea of a man morphing before your eyes is fine for fairytales, but-"

Mizo shrugged away, half-rolling his eyes, but a sudden scrape filled the room. Razer was up on his feet, trembling visibly with rage. A clammy pink was sneaking up his neck, the color fleshing out the lace-like injuries. He jolted as though to stalk toward Mizo, shoulders rigid, hatred crackling through the distance between them.

"You _did not see him_, Mizo- his eyes were black! Pitch black!" He snarled, groping heatedly for words as Mizo's unresponsive eyes picked him apart. "He… he changed, twisted! Edje and Shiv will tell you in an instant, I-"

"Was this before or after you got your ass handed to you?"

Razer swallowed, cheek twitching in a fluttering, uncertain sneer. He blew out a tense breath of air as the silence stretched with no excuse forthcoming, handsome mouth soon stretching around his gritted teeth.

Mizo's eyes flickered with cold satisfaction, mouth creaking in a controlling smile.

"Sit back down, Razer."

Cornered, Razer stiffly lowered himself into his seat.

Mizo looked at him briefly, scratched his chin, tapped his forehead and sighed.

"I'll put it simply for you. I don't want anything to do with your little spat. And really, I'm a pretty easy guy to deal with! So I'm telling you now, just so we don't have any misunderstandings. All you have to do to keep me happy… is to keep your ride out of reach of the mini bumper-car session you and your buddy have been having. It's fun and games like that that make my pockets lighter every day." He chuckled, but immediately hardened. "That's my only rule- you'll have to deal with your 'tier' infestation on your own."

Past being incredulous, Razer threw his gloves to the ground and glared up at Mizo, eyes blazing.

"This isn't about your _fucking cars_!"

Mizo seemed to wave away the rage radiating from the beaten man, and cocked an eyebrow.

"Actually, if you ask me, it's all about my fucking cars." He crossed his arms once more, voice deadly calm.

Razer writhed, lip hiking in a hateful sliver of white, finely manicured nails digging into his palms. His ragged breaths were the only sound in the room, vision blurring into redness. Finally, Mizo's dead expression only seemed to wind him tighter, his whole body heaving as he shouted:

"Du verdammte Scheißkopf!"

Before frozen in a neutral, dangerous smile, Mizo's face twitched. Then his eyes lit from within- and wordlessly, he hiked his foot onto the rim of Razer's chair and kicked it over, swift and sharp.

Razer pitched forward, facedown, making a pained grunt as the chair screeched and he smashed into the cold floor. He felt the gritty grinding of his nose as something within broke all over again, wetness flooding out. Gasping in tight, tense pain, he jammed an elbow under him, releasing an anguished groan as his nose dripped freely, clamped beneath his free hand.

Mizo stood above, something halfway between a polite, carnal smile and a twitch of his lips plastered onto his face.

"Call me finicky, I don't like that word nor the tone you used, Razer."

His only answer was a guttural cough of pain. Razer's eyes clenched tightly, the only sound that of him forcing air in and out with the delicate slurp of blood droplets caught on his lips.

"You shouldn't have come crying to me." Mizo said, voice husky. He cocked his head, watching his head racer tremble with pain with a perfectly comfortable expression. "All of this is your fault. You had to dick with him, didn't you?"

Razer clenched in shock on the floor, sharp eyebrows twisting in something just short of dismay. His green eyes flashed intelligently- sharpened by pain. His red mouth formed a loose circle, teeth poised questioningly.

Mizo laughed, a plastic, blonde-wigged feat.

"You think I don't know? No, Razer- I know everything that goes on in this city. Everything." He said, breathing power into the word. His eyes narrowed. "Your little escapades haven't escaped me."

Razer looked at him in horror for a moment before looking downwards, perhaps at his reflection in the growing pool of blood. Then, while retaining some tattered dignity before, his hand finally clenched at his side in some kind of condensed defeat- a surrender to basic anger. He seethed, sloppy red fingers pinched around his nose.

Mizo rose, resuming business.

"As I was saying. Do you realize how much money out of my pocket it'll cost to recalibrate those racers? All due to your pitiful performance on the track. I pay you for one thing and one thing only, my friend, and right now you're falling a few feet short of earning your keep." He said flatly.

Apparently his view of the bowed raven head wasn't satisfying- he caught Razer's jaw with the tip of his boot and forced it up, eyeing the blood-smeared racer with disgust. Razer returned the glare mechanically, cowed.

"If you haven't forgotten, you work for me." Mizo whispered, voice dipping to dangerous depths. He flipped his toe up, freeing it and jabbing the other's chin. "And if you don't keep your nose clean, Razer, I'll get you and feed you to your little beast friend myself."

Razer lay there, half propped on a shaking arm in a sloppy, cold pool of his own blood, and simply stared.

Then he began cursing at Mizo fluently in his own language- guttural barks spewed forth, heaved and controlled by the deep of his throat and cursing him for living or breathing, crouched like a wounded, cornered animal in all shades of wet red. But Mizo was beyond caring. He had made his point, and was now striding toward the door with his offhanded pace, scooping up some keys off his desk with a large hand. He whistled, plucking his coat off the back of a chair.

The door slammed shut.

Razer curses died into coughs. Silence spanned, dead and grey in the low lighting Mizo liked so much. Mechanically, he sat back and let his head hang, mind swimming back to focus on the pain. He reeled, but forced himself still, pushing away the nightmares that even now would wriggle back into his head, accenting daylight with black eyes. Expecting calm repose to come slipping back to him, as it always did.

But with the pressure behind his eyes and his blood coating the floor, the bandages hanging like flags from the broken crest of his nose, with the door closed and no help forthcoming… it was too much.

He let out a choked, furious sob- it dwindled, then spiked into a snarl of rage. Forcing himself up, he slammed over a chair, kicking it and ignoring the stab of pain it sent into his leg. It clattered, but did not relieve the throb in his nose, and left the room silent save for his angry breaths. His hands clenched, then released. He sniffed.

Gathering from the floor both his gloves and his wounded, bristling pride, Razer stalked out.


End file.
